


Jack in Black

by Adira_Tyree



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Adrenaline Junkie, Alcohol Abuse, Drug Abuse, Fallout Kink Meme, Gen, Immortality, Lone Wanderer as Courier, NCR victory, Violence, thrill-seeker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-17 14:40:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3533153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adira_Tyree/pseuds/Adira_Tyree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack has had a rough life, and though threats come at him from all sides nothing seems to be able to bring him down. At least not physically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jack in Black

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Kink Meme, prompt over [here](http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/5646.html?thread=13736206#t13736206).

            Being unable to die wasn’t something that Jack had ever anticipated having to think about, but somehow it seemed to be a specialty of his. The purifier didn’t kill him, two shots to the head didn’t kill him, even having his brain and heart and spine removed (and, admittedly, replaced with enhanced parts) didn’t kill him. He was no stranger to implants and enhancements, thanks to the lovely Dr. Usanagi, but this was different. Seeing his brain in a jar and _having a conversation with it?_ That was a bit more than he could easily handle.

            It even made fun of him and questioned his choices. Something about that was just not fair, considering it had been an integral part in the vast majority of choices he’d made in his life. He could only assume it was still cranky about having been shot.

            Well _fuck that_ asshole brain. He’d done well enough without it.

            So he’d left it behind him when he left the Big MT, with all the other messed up minds to keep it company. Maybe in a year or so it might get over itself and ask for a ride back to the Mojave. If it asked nice enough, he might even consider.

            Arcade, however, did not share this view. “It’s your _brain_ ,” he argued, shaking Jack by the shoulders. “You don’t just _leave it behind_ when you come back from vacation!”

            As if his time away had been quiet and relaxing.

            Two weeks after his return, he decided to test his theory that all his upgrades had made him ‘unkillable.’ First things first, he tried drinking Cass under the table.

            “Is that a challenge?” she’d asked, eyebrow raised at the sight of more booze than you could find at any one bar on the Strip.

            “What, afraid of a little friendly competition?” He’d flashed her that smirk that always did her in, knowing she’d never back down from a cocky opponent.

            She’d laughed and shook her head in amusement. “It’s your funeral.”

            For the next few days he’d wished it _was_ his funeral. At least he could still get rip-roaring drunk with the best of them. He was almost certain he should have died just from alcohol poisoning with how much he’d ingested, but it wasn’t unheard of for a wasteland citizen to be able to drink their weight in booze. And Cass was known as Whiskey Rose for a reason – and he’d outdrank her.

            After that, he only became more curious to know what his body could handle. He’d paid the Khans to, discretely, put together a large quantity of Rocket for him – the strongest Jet derivative they knew how to make. And _damn_ did they know how to make it. Halfway through pounding the shipment in his suit at the Tops he’d forgotten what he was doing. Still, by the end of the night Jack was convinced that if he’d had a human heart, it should have exploded from all the drugs effecting his system.

            The next time he’d tested his own mortality, or lack thereof, had been entirely on accident. How should he have known that vault would be swarming with ghouls? Thinking back, he remembered hearing something about problems with their reactor, but that didn’t mean the place should be swarming with ferals, did it?

            Maybe it did. Maybe that one was entirely his own fault. But it hadn’t ended all that bad for him, anyway. It had given Boone something to think about for a while, at any rate.

            When in Zion Canyon he’d jumped from the highest cliff he could find down into the shallow, cold waters of the Colorado River, a local tribe had wanted to name him a god. True, his neck should have broken, along with numerous other bones. And he was quite sure he should have drowned after the first hour he was under. Somehow he’d survived and found himself on dry land again, though that land wasn’t dry for long, since he’d coughed up about half the River.

            Joshua wanted to name Jack his brother – one man tested by fire and one by water. It was a little too spiritual for his tastes, but it was never a bad thing to have an extra ally in the world.

            Knowing he was able to survive anything was _intoxicating_ in its own right. It meant charging in to caves without fear of what he’d find there, meant not turning down anything handed to him at wild parties on the Strip, meant thrill-seeking in the wee-hours of the morning because he _could_. It certainly made his first visit to the Boomers easier.

            “How the _hell_ did you survive that bombardment?” the man at the gate asked, sweat pouring down his neck at the sight of Jack alive and well.

            His classic, lopsided grin crept onto his face. “Simple enough.” No need to mention he probably could have lost an arm along the way, if he hadn’t been careful. At least his Pipboy was as indestructible as his limbs seemed to be.

            Arcade chastised him from time to time about his reckless behaviour, but more often than not Cass would come to the rescue. “Calm down, Doc. If the man wants to have a wild ride, let him. He knows what he’s doing.” She winked at him, Arcade scowled, and Veronica just shook her head.

            Even Raul’s snark took a grim turn. “If they kill you do I get your house?”

            Nothing could stop him, it seemed. Jack the Invincible: the Courier Six that could not die. ‘Saviour of the Wastes’ they called him. It had a nice ring to it, sure, but it glorified his exploits when all he really was was an adrenaline junkie. He didn’t have a reason to clear the Fiends out of Vault 3, but he did it anyway for the rush. He didn’t _need_ to slaughter anyone that insulted Raul just for being a ghoul, but he did anyway – that shit pissed him off. He didn’t really even plan to push the Legion out of Cottonwood Cove, it just meant something to keep him entertained.

            The slaves he’d freed from their pens spread word of the attack, making up even wilder tales than he could have imagined. The news even made Boone smile – the first time Jack had seen him _really_ smile since he’d known him. For once, Jack didn’t feel like telling everyone it was easy.

            But that feeling of happiness didn’t last long. A week later Boone followed his example and charged into Legion territory alone – only he didn’t have Jacks advantages. He didn’t come home.

            “At least he died doing what he loved best,” Cass told him quietly. “Beating the living shit out of Legionaries.”

            They all raised a glass in his name, but Jack just wanted to fill the bath with vodka and see if _that_ could drown him.

            “I should have gone with him,” Jack muttered, downing his glass in one long chugging gulp. “I should have known he’d try something like this.”

            “It’s not your fault…” Veronica laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.

            “Yeah, Boss. I don’t know that even you could have brought him back.”

            “He wasn’t known to plan his escapades,” Arcade chimed in. “His wanderlust could have just taken him there on a whim.”

            Jack’s voice was bitter and resentful. “If I hadn’t taken out the camp at the Cove, he might not have gone in alone. If I hadn’t let everyone blow it out of proportion he might have realized it wasn’t so simple.”

            Arcade sighed. “Maybe. But he might have done it exactly the same way anyway. You can’t take all the blame yourself, let someone else have a little. That’s just greedy.” His weak grin didn’t change Jack’s mood at all.

            After the Cottonwood Cove attack, the Legion was angry. They advanced en masse towards the Dam, leaving the NCR scrambling to get their troops there for the fight. A flood of men and women of all ages descended on Freeside and the Strip; some were looking for protection, others just wanted one last wild party before the end.

            Jack didn’t go to any of them. He didn’t have time, if his blade was going to be ready: a blade of the west taken home with him from the Divide, with Boone’s dogtags hanging from the hilt. The NCR’s two-headed bear and the red star were painted across the blade, carefully sealed in under layers of varnish so it could not be erased by the scraping of Legion bones across its surface. A mockery of the Legate’s blade from which it was first copied.

            The only armor he wore into battle was the red beret given to him by Boone so many months before. Since nothing seemed to be able to kill him, it didn’t really seem like armor mattered. As long as his boots kept tied and nothing got in his way, it didn’t matter what came at him.

            Most of the legionaries he cut down on his path to the Legate and to Caesar were easy enough, none memorable enough to stand out – though he was sure a few would leave scars on his bizarre body. Bringing down the Legate himself was a bigger challenge. If his spine hadn’t been reinforced, Jack probably would have been laid out in pieces across the Dam. Instead, the very surprised Legate found his own blade embedded in Jack’s side, while Jacks went in his throat and out the back of his neck.

            As he pulled his the Blade of the East from his body, the Frumentarius from Nipton caught his eye. The man nodded once, probably intended as a show of respect, before throwing himself back into the heat of what he must have known would now be a fruitless battle.

            When Jack slashed his mocking blade through Caesar’s neck, he was disappointed to see Edward Sallow’s face would forever wear the snarl of battle – not some shocked, wide-eyed stare like old books and movies always depicted. It was a letdown, but taking the great gold seal from his armor was still somewhat satisfying; it would look great next to the Legate’s helm, anyway.

 

* * *

 

            The wound through his side healed, with time, but the Legate’s mark would remain as a scar for the rest of Jack’s life, though the other scars he gained in the Second Battle for Hover Dam faded away. Jack kept his war trophies (the Legate’s helm, Caesar’s seal, Vulpes’ vexillarius hood, and Lucius’ powerfist) on a shelf over his bed in the Lucky 38, with Boone’s dogtags hanging above it all in glory to his memory. He moved into the penthouse and opened the casino for business – with the profits all going to benefit Freeside and the slaves liberated from the Legion.

            Jack stuck around .for a few years more, making sure the Mojave got cleaned up as best as could be hoped for and that the NCR didn’t unintentionally destroy New Vegas for the sake of income. It wasn’t quite the same as before all the wars, but it still held on. With Cass in charge of the Lucky 38, Arcade managing things for Freeside’s new immigrants, and Veronica working as a liaison between the NCR and the Brotherhood, everything seemed like it could go right for once. Even old Raul was happy, living with Beatrix at the Wrangler.

            Still, the open road always called to Jack – and it was time for him to move on to somewhere new. There were countless places where he could find a way to help, one way or another. Maybe his death waited out there somewhere for him, he didn’t know. There wasn’t much he bothered to bring with him, and he skipped the formal goodbyes. He’d come back someday, see how things were doing. Maybe on his way back to visit his old friends back in DC, maybe after. The whole world was open to him.

            When he left, he kept his old BB gun from his father back at the Vault he’d grown up in, he kept the platinum chip that Benny had failed to kill him for, and he kept the dogtags of his best friend. Beyond that and a good sturdy blade, he didn’t need much to keep him going. Maybe his next adventure would give him something new to carry – and he couldn’t wait to find out what it was.


End file.
